And a remnant--if not a whole piece--shall be sav'd, Where cloth may be cabbag'd--and that without fear-- And journeymen work--thirteen months to the year!" Snipinda was mov'd at so dismal a yell, And groping about to find where he fell, Exclaim'd, "I have got a sad bruise on one hip, But matters, I fear, are much worse with poor Snip." "Yes, yes"--answer'd Snip--"I'm preparing to go-- Be speedy, Snipinda, my pulse is so low!" Then she went where he lay, and took hold of his head, And whisper'd the captain, "how much he has bled!" (For she thought, as he lay with his nose in the puddle, That the water was blood, that had flow'd from his noddle.) "Ah! where is the doctor, to give him a pill; And where is the Lawyer, to write his last-will? Ezekiel! Ezekiel! attend to his words; If I am his widow, I must have my thirds! But can you"--and here she reclin'd on his breast-- "And can you resolve to forsake me distrest, Is it thus you would quit me, my joy and my love, And leave me alone for the shop-boards above: Is it thus you consign me to trouble and woe?-- When you are departed, ah! where shall I go? I shall then be a widow--forsaken and sad-- And where shall I find such another sweet lad? Who then will afford me a mint-water dram, Gallant me to meeting--and who will flog Sam?" By this time the story was currently spread, And most were convinc'd that the taylor was dead,-- "The taylor is dead beyond all relief! The taylor is dead," cry'd captain O'Keef: "To fetch up a fashion, or trump up a whim, Not a knight of the thimble was equal to him!" "The taylor is dead"--(the lawyer exclaim'd) God speed him!--'tis better to die than be maim'd: If life is a race, as the learned pretend, God help him! his racing is soon at an end: His anchor is cast, and his canvas is furl'd; A creature he was, so attach'd to the world, So eager for money--(I say it with grief) He never consider'd the 'fall of the leaf.' He is come (we may say) to the end of his tether Where the maid and her master shall lay down together.-- For the place where he's gone may we also prepare, Where the Mind, when admitted, shall rest from her care, And fiddles--the finest that ever were seen, Shall play, for his comfort, a brisk Bonny Jean. "The taylor is dead" (said the company round) "The taylor is dead"--the dark forests resound.-- "He is dead!"--blubber'd Sam, with a counterfeit sigh-- When the sailor bawl'd out--"By my soul it's a lie! The fellow has only a mind for some fun, His blood is not cold, and his race is not run. His head, it is true, may have had a small shock: I'll bind it--'twill only be strapping a block: Here, hand me a neck-cloth, a napkin, a clout! Now--heave up his noddle, and strap it about! Success to the skull that can bear a good jirk-- They only have damag'd his ginger-bread work." The matters turn'd out as he said and he swore,